


Stage Left

by harcourt



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BDSM, Blindfolds, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, I wrote this for the kinkmeme, Impact Play, M/M, Masochism, Mild Humiliation, On Display, PWP, Restraints, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Club, Sex Toys, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-29 09:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8484862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: For this prompt:
  Clints been extra good, Tony takes him to a BDSM Club and shows him off as a reward.





	1. Chapter 1

"If this is _for_ me," Clint says, fussing at the collar of his coat as they ride down in the elevator, "Why am I dressed like a flasher?"

"You say that like you don't _want_ to be dressed like a flasher," Tony tells him mildly, smiling at himself in the mirrored walls and adjusting his jacket. Smoothing down the lapels. He's hitting the perfect balance between casual and put together. Looking sharp, but not fussy or overdressed. Like it just comes to him. Behind him, in the reflection, he can see Clint roll his eyes.

He looks fine, and if Tony didn't know that Clint's not dressed under his coat, he'd never give him a second look. The lack of a shirt collar peeking out is a bit suspicious, but not exactly a tell. He could be wearing a t-shirt, for all anyone would know. Clint looks more awkwardly put together and uncomfortable than like someone about to be put on exhibitionist display.

" _Seriously_ , Tony." The elevator doors ping, then open. Clint follows him into the garage, and down a row of cars as Tony _eenie meenie moes_ his favorites. "Where are we going? What if someone stops us?"

"Who's going to stop us?" Tony laughs, snapping his fingers for JARVIS to unlock the car he settles on. Black and flashy but not _too_ flashy. He doesn't want to attract attention. Or at least, not _too much_ attention. Nothing anyone will make a note of or remember.

"I don't know." Clint has his hands in his pockets, stopped in the middle of the garage, and Tony rests his arms on the roof of the car to regard him over it, waiting impatiently. "AIM agents. Maybe cops."

"Get in the car, Barton."

Clint gives him a look. It's fun to see him discomfited. Even more fun when Clint does what Tony wants in spite of it. 

"Fine," Clint grumps, and stalks over. Yanks open the passenger side door and drops in heavily, to slouch down in the seat. Tony grins and gets in. 

"See? Behaving is easy."

"Says you." Clint says it with a laugh, dropping the cranky act, even though Tony can tell the nervousness is genuine by the way Clint's picking at the seatbelt with his thumbnail. Scraping over the weave of the nylon.

"If that's a reference to things that may or may not have surfaced recently on the internet, I want you to know that people edit those things."

"Uh-huh."

"Or, if you're talking about last Friday, some of us don't consider things Steve says to be _orders_ , but more like constructive suggestions."

Clint slides even further down in his seat, and laughs again. It's a little reedy, but when Tony glances over, Clint's smirk is more goofy than guarded or tense.

"Fine," Tony says. "Okay. You win. We can't all be good boys like you."

Clint _pffs_. He's not in the right mood yet to really take to the praise, but he's in just the right place to be reminded that he'll _be_ in the right mood to fucking love the praise later. Has _been_ in the right mood to love the praise before, and often. Tony doesn't buy his defensive bristle for a second, and when Tony glances at him again, the next time they're stopped at a light, Clint's goofy smirk's turned into a goofy little smile. He's slouched low enough that Tony bets he can't really see where they are and is just watching the lights go by.

\-----

The club Tony takes him to is fancy and discreet, but Clint follows warily on Tony's heels anyway, through a heavy wooden door, past a bouncer who gives Tony a companionable nod and gets a scowl from Clint, and down stairs into what looks like a swanky bar, the decor an elegant mix of dark wood, glass, and shiny brass. The lighting is low enough to be intimate, but bright enough that nothing feels hidden or seedy, with warm spot lighting to counteract what gloom there is and create little areas of seeming privacy. 

Tony snorts. Mostly because seeing Clint nervous is funny, but also because there's nothing threatening in sight. Definitely nothing that should cause Clint to stick as close as he is. "It's fine. And it's someplace I can show you off."

Clint glances around and back, taking in the clientele, the easy elegance that means wealth and power and _class_. His dubious look is priceless.

"Trust me."

That's maybe the best part of the whole thing. That Clint frowns and knots up his brow, but relaxes. Or at least, he's sure enough of Tony that he stops acting suspicious and looks around again to reassess.

"There's another room," Tony tells him, even though he's sure Clint's figured that part out, because this part of the club is mostly seating and bar space, and dominated by low conversation and unobtrusive music. Everything very tasteful and low-key.

"If any of this ends up on the internet," Clint starts, and Tony snorts again, because no establishment could keep this particular clientele, if that were in any way a risk. 

Still, he tells Clint, "No one would know who you are."

Clint's laugh is shaky. He has to know that Tony is putting him on about the possibility of being recorded, but he's also clearly liking the thought. Or loving to hate the thought, Tony thinks, because Clint's turned away in embarrassment. Head tilted down and to the side in a way that's become familiar, and he's not sure what part of that does it for Clint--the display, or Tony _putting_ him on display, or that he'd _let_ Tony do it, or just the idea of being at the mercy of something out of his control. Probably, it's a combination of all of those. 

Tony grins crookedly, waiting while Clint gets over his discomfiture, then suggests, "Lets hang up our coats, okay?" and snakes an arm around Clint's to give him a little tug further into the club.

"Yeah," Clint starts, before his brain re-engages and he remembers how much he isn't wearing under that outer layer, and follows with, "Oh. Oh, fuck, Tony," and reflexively balks, then rethinks _that_ , and lets Tony pull him into stumbling motion, past the bar--Tony waves to the bartender in a familiar way that makes Clint scowl--and to another door, manned by another bouncer, but one dressed to pass as a waiter. 

"Coat check?" Tony asks, and grins as he turns his over, then stands back and watches Clint wrestle with a fit of self-consciousness. 

No one is watching them, particularly. There's a curious glance, now and then, but everyone knows what the deal is, here, and a bit of public undress in the front room is nothing new. "Come on," Tony urges, not saying _Clint_ or _Barton_ while Clint's working his way through his defenses, visibly dismantling the barriers.

Waiter-bouncer lets him take his time, feigning distraction, but Tony can tell he's giving them both a once-over. Considering Tony's shit-eating grin before turning his attention to Clint, taking a little more time there, passively studying the stormclouds that have moved back into Clint's expression as he undoes his top button. Tony grins more. Waggles his eyebrows at the man, letting him know that Tony knows that he's making sure they're on the level. That Tony isn't high or drunk and hasn't brought someone with him who is high or drunk or otherwise coerced, Clint's scowl aside.

Tony waits until Clint's finished unbuttoning, then adds, "Don't forget your boots," and tries not to grin too much while Clint is looking at him, gaze hard. Not appreciating his sense of humor.

Clint heaves a breath, finally, and goes to a knee to undo them, putting Tony in the perfect position to drop a hand to his head. Letting it slide off and down Clint's spine as he gets back up, to rest in the small of his back while he hands his boots over. 

"Happy? Clint asks a little querulously, finally letting his coat slide off, leaving it in Tony's hands. Leaving him barefoot and mostly naked, standing there in his regular boxer briefs because costumes aren't Tony's thing. Clint's sure and confident again, all of a sudden and incongruously.

Tony turns Clint's coat over with a wink, then nudges him through the double swinging doors that lead into the next room. "After you." 

It's mostly the furnishings that are different. Tables and chairs, like in front, but also more comfortable seating--couches and loungers--and around the place, tucked into corners, under lighting, and set against walls, padded horses and tables. An artful gyroscope looking thing, polished and spot-lit, takes up a far wall, a clear center stage that Clint won't look at head-on.

"Too showy," Tony tells him, and gets a nervous, relieved laugh. "Let's get some stuff, hmm?"

Clint doesn't ask what kind of stuff, and seems happy for the delay and the chance to do some recon, frowning at the room in general as he follows a step or two behind Tony, to a more sheltered nook. He turns his attention back when Tony retrieves a key from the depths of his pocket, and unlocks a cabinet he's had booked for some time, revealing an array of gear. Colorful and not unimpressive.

"The hell, Stark?" Clint asks, low and by his ear, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the contents. Plugs and gags and blindfolds. All kinds of things he can use for all kinds of strikes. There's more here than Tony plans to use, and some things he plans to _never_ use. It's partly for the options, partly to keep Clint on his toes, and a good part for the show. He knows Clint likes the show, and the nervous edge where apprehension balances against anticipation.

"Any requests?" Tony asks him, bringing a hand up to pet Clint's head. Soothing, in case that balance might be starting to tip the wrong way. Clint's breath is kind of unsteady against the side of his face. "I'm thinking blindfold first?" Clint drags in a shuddering breath, then lets it out. Nods against Tony's shoulder. Swallows audibly. "But you've been so good, I thought I'd let you pick."

"Oh," Clint says, like he's just figuring something out, and pulls away to look across the room again, then settles back into place. "Oh."

"This?" Tony asks, touching a plug with a fingertip, like he's contemplating a chess move, then moves on thoughtfully. "Or this one?"

"God," Clint whispers. "Are you--? Out _here_?"

Tony turns his head enough to plant a kiss on the side of Clint's face. Light and silly. "The _point_ is to show you off, Barton. So yeah." Clint squirms. Fidgets. Tony's seen him be still and patient and deadly, but there's no trace of that at the moment. His breath is shallow and fast against Tony's ear, and it tickles, but he'd also really like to know what exactly Clint's picturing.

"Cuffs?" Clint asks, then reaches past Tony to tap one of the crops. A braided leather thing. "And that." His voice is low as he keeps making selections, in random order. Opting things in rather than really choosing. Letting Tony have final pick.

"Good boy," Tony tells him when he's done, and he's transferred Clint's choices from the cabinet and into Clint's arms. "Now pick a table and lay them out, then wait for me."

Another glance across the room. Tony snaps his fingers to get his attention back. "You know what to do?" he asks, not because he thinks Clint doesn't, but because Clint looks like he might not be firing on all cylinders, flushed and too bright-eyed to not be half riding an adrenaline rush. "Pick a table, get things organized," Tony repeats, "Then on your knees, and I'll be right back."

"Okay." 

"Good. Go."

==========

As promised, Tony doesn't take long. Clint barely has time to start getting really aware of people being aware of _him_ , waiting on his knees in practically nothing, before Tony's back with water that he sets on the table, before he stands back to survey Clint's work, considering the tidy groups he's sorted everything into with the same thoughtful frown he gives his projects in the workshop. Clint scowls. Pretends he's not aiming it more at the floor than at Tony, and that the effects aren't entirely mitigated by his being on his knees waiting for Tony's approval.

"Okay," Tony allows, after a minute, "Good job," and even though it’s not like Clint was going to mess up laying out floggers in order of preference, his ears heat with pleasure. 

"Now," Tony goes on, uncapping one of the bottles of water and coming over to tip small sips into Clint's mouth, "You get to choose one more thing." Clint looks up. "And I think you've already nixed the space camp prop?"

Clint looks back over at it, "It's kind of like," he says, "that thing for practicing how to crash land."

"I wasn't going to spin you around in it." Tony snorts, setting the bottle aside, and stepping out of Clint's sight line as he does it. A second later, his hand is getting a grip in Clint's hair and forcing his head around, directing his gaze. "But what looks good to you? That? Or that one?" They're both things Tony can tie him to, in several positions. The first a spiffed up version of something resembling a pommel horse, and the next a kind of canted table, with restraints at the lowered head. 

"I think I'm getting an idea of what you're planning," Clint says.

"I'm sure you have all kinds of ideas," Tony agrees, sounding a little distracted as he considers the options. "But while you think about it," Clint hears him play with something on the table, moving stuff around. "How about you get up?"

Clint starts to, but it turns out that what Tony means by _get up_ , is more along the lines of _bend over the table_. His hand catches the back of Clint's neck as he rises, and pushes him down until he's resting on his elbows, the assortment of toys laid out right in front of his face, and beyond that, furniture and people. Someone is being fastened into the gyroscope Clint had vetoed. "Tony?"

"Shh. You watch. What do you like?" Fuck. Clint drops his head onto this forearms. Shivers, even though the room isn't cold at all. "Head up, Barton," Tony says. He sounds amused, the asshole. "Usually you're nothing _but_ opinions."

"Haha," Clint grumbles into his arms, but raises his head enough that he can see.

"I can put you on your back, too," Tony offers, and Clint's gaze flicks over to where that's happening, on a padded bench across the club. His view's mostly obstructed by furniture and people, but he can make out enough to know what's going on.

"Yeah. Okay," Clint agrees. His face feels hot. Tony's hand is on his back, keeping him down. 

"Yeah? Let's hear you ask for it."

Clint squirms. Struggling, but not really. Adjusts his feet. Tony screwing with him is both hot and obnoxious as hell. " _Tony_."

"That sounds really decisive," Tony says, drawing away. "Maybe you should do the talking. Keep us on the same page."

Clint heaves a breath. Reconsiders his options. There's rings hanging from the ceiling in a corner, and that seems okay. Not too nuts. He'd rather not hang from his shoulders, but they look adjustable. Probably, Tony wouldn't consider letting him stand flat-footed enough of a challenge, but tip toes--being on tip toes and stretched out for him--

Clint's about to say so, when Tony hooks fingers under his waistband and drags his underwear down, leaving them around his thighs, then swats the back of one leg. "Wider, Clint."

"The rings," Clint blurts. It sounds like he's bargaining.

"Yeah? What about them?" Tony swats his thigh again, and Clint catches up to the order and spreads his stance as far as he can. Closes his eyes. Tony could have had the blindfold on him for this, so he wouldn't have to watch people watching him. He could drop his head back to his arms while Tony strokes his bare ass, and lands occasional gentle pops, but when he tries, Tony reaches under him and gives his nuts a squeeze. 

"Geez. Okay. Ow," Clint protests, and raises his head again. He's panting. He feels hot and flushed, and he's already hard, with Tony's hand still between his legs, working him a little more gently now. "I'm thinking."

Tony lets go to smack his ass again. Prompts, "Go on. You liked the rings?"

"And the table," Clint says, not meaning to give up more options, but Tony's parting his ass, and no one's really watching them, but it's making his heart race. "That one," with the lowered head and the raised end, and fuck. Tony's going to take that braided crop to him in front of people. Let them watch while he lets Tony do whatever. 

Tony's fingers press against his hole, and this time, when Clint drops his head, Tony lets him. Murmurs a soothing, "That's a good boy. Relax and this'll go quick."

"Are you fucking me?" Clint asks, "Right here?" because Tony's fingers are cool with lube, but the next thing that presses against him is outright cold and too hard to be Tony. He shudders against the table, but Tony doesn't let up, wiggling the thing when Clint tenses, and not letting up on the pressure until Clint relaxes again and lets it in.

It's one of the plugs he'd chosen. Wide and heavy and holding him open. Clint's fingers scrabble for purchase against the table as his body tries to reject it and fails. Partly because of the narrower groove at its neck, and partly because Tony is holding it in place. 

"Easy, easy," Tony's saying, and Clint realizes he's making little desperate noises, face against the table. Looking right at a blindfold. The thought is too much, and he groans. Bucks back against Tony's hand, and only manages to press the plug deeper into him.

"I'm going to let you up in a second," Tony says, "and then you can sit here, and we'll get you ready."

"There's _more_ ready?" Clint asks. He means it to sound snappy, but it comes out hoarse and breathless and a little disbelieving. Tony laughs.

"You wanted cuffs," he reminds, "and the blindfold. How do you feel about a gag?"

"Depends how much conversation you plan to keep making." 

"A lot," Tony says, tugging him up, but leaving his underwear down and around his thighs. "But the responding can be optional."

They haven't even really started, and Clint's already short of breath, but he lets Tony run careful hands over him and makes the eye contact Tony insists on, a brief assessment before he urges Clint back to his knees. Just a nudge and a gesture that Clint's pretty happy to comply with, folding to the freakishly clean floor so he can rest his head against Tony's knee and accept praise and fingers in his hair while he watches the room. Trying to memorize some of the space before Tony gets the blindfold on. "I might need to ask you things."

"Okay. No gag." 

Tony's going really easy, in a way, Clint thinks as he offers his wrists for Tony to fasten cuffs around. Letting Clint have his way on anything he pushes back on, steering rather than pushing or insisting, the way they sometimes play at. Clint sighs and kisses his knee, feeling happy and weirdly adoring. 

Tony, like an ass, laughs again. "You okay there?"

The cuffs are snug. Not too tight, but nothing he can pull free from. Clint pulls his hands back and tests the give a little more, then takes the ankle cuffs Tony drops into his hands. "Yeah. Fine."

"Good. Put those on. No funny business."

"Aye, aye," Clint grumbles, but does as he's told, a little awkward with the nudity and the constraint of his still half-down underwear, then settles back into place to let Tony fasten the blindfold, head ducked.

"Stop means stop," Tony reminds him, pressing the padded fabric over Clint's eyes and holding it there for a second, straps dangling, letting Clint get used to the idea, and the absolute dark. "Wait means wait, Hang on means--"

"I _got_ it."

"And 'take it off' means I take this off. Okay?"

"Yeah. Fine. I know."

"Impatient shit," Tony says, fond, but the remark is directed away from him, and Clint stills. Pretends he's not aware someone's come over to watch and that Tony's decided to chat while he fiddles at the back of Clint's head. The straps tightening tweak in his hair. 

"Ow," Clint grouches, just to make good on that _shit_ statement, and hears Tony snort, and a second voice chuckle. He'd ask how much of an audience they have, but he'd rather not know. 

"Okay, sweetheart," Tony says, and this time it's Clint's turn to snort, a more derisive sound than Tony's suppressed laugh. "On your feet."

That's slower going than Clint would like, and he's sure Tony's new friend is enjoying the gasp that wrenches out of him when the plug shifts. It's heavy, and he has to clench around it, then gasp again. Tony's really thought this through, the asshole.

"You're okay. That's great," Tony soothes, and this time Clint doesn't protest the tone. "Get naked."

"What?"

"You heard me. Come on. Be a good boy, Barton."

Clint cants his head, hoping Tony's where he thinks he is, or the effect will be lost. He gets a chuckle in response and decides he's probably a bit off, but it's too late to adjust for the error. 

"Move. People want to see."

"Jesus, Tony."

"No? I want to see people see you. That better?"

It's not, really, and the whole thing makes him feel awkward and over exposed, even though he's already about as exposed as possible. He's suddenly intensely aware of that and feels an almost unpleasant heat crawl all over him, not really shame or humiliation, but just a sharp, self-conscious sense of how he probably looks, and how he's hard as hell already. Tony's got him pretty solidly off his fucking balance, but he's also got a hand on Clint's hip, steadying and near and if Clint can sense bodies around them, none of them are touching him or making close-by noise, and it's possible it's just his nerves, making his mind play tricks on him.

"The whole point," Tony goes on, grabbing him by the wrists and bringing his hands to the fabric twisted just under his butt, "was to show off how good you can be. So get on with it."

"I don't know where you got that idea," Clint complains, even though being good for Tony is generally pretty fun, but he loses his last bit of clothing, with only the slightest bit of undignified hopping to catch his balance, and then stands there, while Tony stays quiet and doesn't touch him. "Tony?"

"Just taking in the view. Stand still."

"Aren't we gonna--?"

"Take it easy. We'll get there. Want to know who's looking? Right now? At you?"

Tony's exhibitionist streak is going to kill him. Or maybe his _show off_ streak, because Tony's not exactly the one on exhibit here. Clint considers asking if he's serious, then decides on, "Not really," instead. 

"Okay."

Something clatters. Clint licks his lip, mouth dry, listening to Tony collect things off their table, and to the sound of his own breathing. The floor feels smooth under his feet. Warm where he'd been kneeling on it, then cold when he takes a step, adjusting for balance, then adjusting again. Trying to make the plug sit more comfortably, so it won't take up so much of his attention and keep distracting him from trying to decode Tony's movements, but mostly he manages to do the opposite, and jumps when Tony touches him again, palm a firm pressure against his back.

"Having a good time without me, huh?" Tony asks. Having a good time himself, just cracking smug jokes. Clint raises his head to say something snippy back, then realizes that the soft, rhythmic sound he's been hearing is his own panting and decides there's no winning back the point.

"Now," Tony says, and gives him a little push. Just enough that Clint's not sure whether he's supposed to step forward or not, and ends up staying put. "You're going to behave, and do exactly what I tell you. Because if you don't, you'll probably trip and fall into a table."


	2. Chapter 2

There's hardly anyone nearby--crowding around isn't the expected etiquette in this level of establishment--which makes it sort of mean, maybe, to let Clint fidget and stew and worry about it, but there are eyes on them. Partly because Tony is Tony, and nothing short of a full undercover disguise is ever going to make him invisible, and partly because Clint's well-muscled and scarred, and his rough edges are a little out of place against all the artful polish. 

Also because Clint looks great, eager and impatient and almost vibrating with it, even though his movement across the floor is also a little hesitant, waiting for cues, but responding easily as Tony steers him with a hand on the back of his neck. Pausing at the slightest squeeze and continuing again when he's prompted. He's quiet, breath carefully measured, and even though most of that is Clint listening for warnings in case he smacks into some obstacle, it's doing great things for Tony's ego to be at the center of his focus because Clint's attention, when he's paying it, is kind of intense. 

"Little step down," Tony warns, and guides him into it. Clint doesn't pause to feel for the edge, or test the distance. Just adjusts his gait so Tony's stepping first and he can follow, reading the changing pressure of Tony's hand and the movement of his body. As smooth as if he could see, and to anyone watching it's like Tony's in full control, pulling Clint’s' strings just through that one point of contact. 

Which isn't a bad feeling at all. He's making Tony look pretty great, and if he wasn't so aware that it's Clint's skill on show, really, he'd feel more than a little impressed with himself. Might feel a little impressed with himself anyway, because Clint comes to a perfect, obedient halt under the rings, and turns the way Tony wants him at just the slightest signal against his neck. 

"We here?" Clint asks, with a grin that means he knows they are. He looks a bit giddy, the way he does at the end of a fight, or, sometimes, at the beginning of one. His hair is disheveled from Tony pulling it earlier, and his hands are clenching and loosening at his sides. He has his head angled to listen, tilting it around as he follows Tony's movements, ignoring the other sounds of the club. Even though they've attracted a little more attention now and the murmur of conversation is a bit closer and louder, Clint doesn't seem to notice anymore. Intent, almost the way he is when he's lining up a shot.

"Oh fuck, Clint. Fuck, you're gorgeous." Tony can't resist kissing him, even though he's also got one hand full of things. It leaves him with only one free to wrap around Clint's wrist, holding it down, but Clint takes the hint and keeps them both hands at his sides, leaning into the kiss to demand more, then making a disappointed noise when Tony steps back again, so he can set his things down nearby. 

He hasn't brought much with him from the table. Not even a fraction of what Clint's picked and laid out, but he makes noise like he's got a good armload to choose from. Picking things up and putting them back down. Shifting things around on the shelf mounted nearby, watching Clint listen and try to remember everything he'd opted in, struggling to match noise to likely item. He has to know that Tony's hands weren't that full while they were walking, but he tenses anyway. Shifts his weight from foot to foot, and swallows, occasionally. 

Clint's working himself into knots, but he also knows it's a show and knows when the show is over. He straightens up when Tony's intentional clattering is replaced with the quieter, more focused sounds of actual preparation. The low swish and smack of Tony testing the crop against his leg. The rough hiss of material, and dull clink of straps and clips being gathered up. 

Clint's chin lifts stubbornly when Tony steps in close again, right up against his back. He's going to play tough guy, is what that means, and that's fine, because Tony likes when Clint plays tough guy. It means there's going to be a lot of Clint's defiant game face tonight, probably, and that makes it almost a pity that Tony can't see his eyes, because almost nothing is better than watching Clint hold out, and fight himself and his own endurance, and eventually crumple.

Though winding Clint up has definite merits. Tony wouldn't want to miss that, or the impatient stewing it results in.

"Easy, easy," he murmurs, straightening the tethers he'd picked up, draping them over his shoulders so he can keep his hands free to touch Clint and to give his cuffs a last quick check. "Work with me for a second, okay?"

"Mm."

"Good boy. Up on your toes." 

Blindfolded and breathing fast, Clint's not the steadiest once he's also on his tiptoes, but Tony's got good footing, and an arm around him, loose, but enough to brace Clint so he doesn't have to shuffle around to keep his balance.

"Hand," Tony tells him, taking it and guiding it to one of the rings. "And hold." Clint fumbles a little, grabbing for it, but he does better with the second, and then frowns a little. "Too easy? I'm not done yet."

"I didn't _say_ anything," Clint snips, but he doesn't let go, holding on obediently while Tony fastens each wrist in in place using the tethers and some hefty carabiners that he clips to the cuffs. Clint waits until he's finished before adjusting his grip and tugging experimentally, to get a feel for how much give are in the straps securing the rings to the ceiling and how much weight everything will hold. 

They'll hold a lot more than Clint, that's for sure, but Tony lets him lift himself clear off his feet and pull at them and frown to himself before tugging him back into place, holding Clint by the hips until he stills. "Feet apart."

The firm tone makes Clint go quiet and serious. Or he's concentrating on the plug again, and trying to keep his balance and hang on, all at the same time. Tony grins. "Here's what gonna happen," he says, at Clint's back again, finding the base of the plug so he can work it, just slightly and mostly in threat, because he likes the way Clint's attention clicks back to full focus, but scatters. It's a fun contradiction. "Are you listening?"

"Yeah." It's harsh. A rough pant. Clint's at least half absorbed in what Tony might or might not be about to do between his legs. Tense and bracing for it. Fingers white knuckled in expectation.

"Don't hyperventilate, Barton. If you pass out, you’ll miss all the fun."

Clint laughs. It's unsteady, but he takes a slow breath or two after and makes himself relax, then nods and repeats, "I'm listening."

"Okay. In a second," Tony tells him, getting a leg between Clint's, "I'm going to get a bar and make sure you keep your feet where I want them," and bumps Clint's stance wider. The sudden adjustment makes him stumble and pull on the rings for support, but as soon as he steadies, Tony presses the plug hard into him. "And you're going to hold on to this."

"Oh, fuck."

"And these." Tony reaches up to give one of his arms a shake, and Clint's grip tightens on the ring in response. Determined, and jaw setting. He still makes a noise when Tony goes to crank the rings higher, bringing him up to the limits of his balance. A small, alarmed sound, before Clint's breath goes harsh, picking up as he tries to keep a grip on the floor, his bare toes sliding because Tony hasn't left him with much traction. "And I'm going to take that pretty leather thing you picked out, and use it to show everyone how fucking good you can be."

"God. Okay. Yeah." It's jumbled, breathless agreement, but Clint's also pulling on his shoulders, anxiously adjusting his weight.

"Let go."

Clint does, and drops heavily back to the floor. There's enough slack in the tethers that he can stand flat footed without pulling his arms, but enough tension that his hands are still fixed above him and the restraints are offering support he can use to find his balance, if he needs to.

"And I stop," Tony adds, like he's completing the sentence. "And if you want me to start again, you're going to have to ask, really, _really_ , nicely and with your best manners. Because this widget thing--" It squeaks as he wiggles it back and forth for effect. "Is kind of annoying." The mechanism rolls easily though, when he lowers the rings back to where Clint can grab back on, using the tethers to locate them. "Still following?"

"Yeah."

"Nicely, Clint."

Clint huffs. Says, stubbornly, "I _got_ it."

"See? Perfect. Up you go."

Once the spreader bar is in place, Clint's balance is even more precarious, and he swings a bit when he slips, but if it's disorienting, Clint's also up for the challenge. His mouth sets into a stubborn line as he concentrates on keeping his footing and his bearings. So absorbed in the task that he twists like he's been shocked the first time Tony hits him, and ends up kicking ridiculously trying to find the floor, movements too constrained with his ankles attached to each other for the thrashing to be effective.

"Clint. Hey, hey," Tony soothes, catching him with one arm to still his swing and holding him in place until he manages settle down, then keeps a hand on him when he lands the next hit, so that Clint's jerk is a little more restrained.

"Sorry. Sorry. Shit." 

He's not sorry. Not in any way that's not a part of the game. Tony can tell by the way his frown is more intent than upset. Clint centering himself and refocusing. Annoyed that he'd let himself get distracted and forgotten about the crop. Maybe annoyed at having thrashed around with an embarrassing lack of coordination in public, or what may as well be, by Clint's standards. "Well?"

"Shh. You just hold on," Tony tells him, but lands another hit. Gentler, this time. Just a light pop against the back of one thigh, and followed a second later with a second one, a little higher up, before pausing. Clint sighs. Adjusts his footing. Makes a low humming noise when Tony moves to the other side, repeating the same light blows, then makes the sound again when Tony angles the next few hits and gets him on the inside of the thighs.

Someone nearby sighs appreciatively in response, and Tony silently agrees. He feels the same way about the strangely happy noises Clint's making, and the way he's visibly relaxing, even as Tony puts a little more force into the hits. Part of that is just Clint going with the flow. Weathering instead of fighting is a tactic that has its place, and Clint not wanting to give him easy satisfaction is one of those places, but that doesn't explain the noise of complaint when Tony pauses to step around him.

"Don't rush me, Barton. We have all night to see if I can make you cry." It's a promise. And a bit of a threat. Clint rocks a little in response, swinging his weight on purpose, and in clear challenge. 

"Figured out your balance, have you?"

"Well," Clint starts, with false modesty. Tony pops him on the cheek. Very light. Just enough to shock Clint with the fact that he'd _do it_. He doesn't really mean to make Clint's hand slip. 

"Nuts," Clint says, when he can't find the ring back and has to let go entirely. With warning and considering how short the drop is, the fall is more just Clint rocking back onto his heels. "Go again?"

" _Nicely_."

Clint grins, but at least he has the decency to dip his head and aim it at the floor. 

"This is what happens when you have to show off."

"Sorry, Tony," Clint says, still not sorry at all. He's so pleased--with himself, with Tony, with having reached a point where he's in trouble, it's hard to tell--that he looks like he might bust. 

"And?"

"And can I please try again?"

"Ugh. Now I have to go do the," Tony gestures, miming turning a knob, then remembers Clint can't see him and adds, "winch thing." He half expects another half-assed apology, but Clint just hops up and catches on with one hand, then feels around till he can get a grip with the other. Laughs, as soon as he's successful, even though it also sounds like he's trying to stifle it. All the pent-up anticipation and nerves releasing, now that they've started, and turning to bright intensity, leaving Clint energized and silly.

"Don't think you're not still in trouble."

Clint sucks his breath in, chest expanding and stomach hollowing as he relaxes intentionally, letting his weight hang from the fixtures and swinging a little, back curved into an elegant arch. Comfortable with the set-up now, and with the safety precautions in place to protect his shoulders from strain. He's putting every showy skill he knows to work, while pretending he's not. Like the way he's hanging there isn't its own little circus worth of Clint playing flexible and athletic and tough. Tony's a bit surprised that he's moving so well, between the plug and the spreader bar, even though the width he's set Clint's feet at is admittedly nothing drastic.

"Yeah, yeah. You're very pretty," Tony grumbles, with convincing sarcasm, but he gives in to the urge to smooth a hand over the stretched muscles of Clint's chest and stomach, stopping to rest his palm against Clint's ribs as he takes another breath; a huff out and then a long inhale. "And I'm going to hit you _everywhere_."

==========

Tony's going to make good on that promise. Clint's pretty sure, because even though the hits stay light, they're aimed at random, weird targets, and mostly don't repeat. Covering ground, with no pattern. Hitting Clint's thigh, the inside of an elbow, the underside of a buttock, then jumping to Clint's side, high up and just shy of his armpit, followed by a quick smack to his waist, and then the back of his neck. Places Tony would never hit with any force. They're more light little slaps than anything, barely even a sting, and even with the odd targets Tony's choosing, it's easy to take.

"You like that, huh?" Tony asks, when Clint can't stifle a lightheaded, breathy laugh. Reacting to a near-painless, but startling smack to the back of a calf. 

"Aren't you gonna," Clint asks, voice uneven, "Lose track? If you keep jumping around?"

"I can always start over." Punctuated with a tap to the face, to the other side than before. A playful little _paff_ that makes Clint flinch in surprise, even though it's more wind than strike. He's not startled enough to fall this time, and a little swing is enough to use up the force of his sudden jerk. At least enough that Clint can stretch, get his grip on the floor back, and drag to a full stop. 

Acrobatics-wise, there's nothing impressive about it, but Clint grins in victory anyway. Lifting his head to aim it in what he hopes is Tony's general direction, and gets another little tap-tap in response. An approving pat to the top of his head. "Very nice, Barton."

It's just teasing, but there's no way to hide how even that praise is starting to effect him. The best Clint can do is drop his head in case the heat in his face is visible, but when he does, Tony gives him a little nudge under the chin, then follows it with a slightly harder bop, and then another, until Clint's head is up and tilted back, throat exposed.

For a second, he's sure Tony's going to whack him in it, but the crop just pats again, and is followed by the warmth of Tony's mouth. Kissing from jaw, down his neck, and then across Clint's collarbone to the ball of his shoulder, where Tony leaves a ridiculous, loud smootch, then starts kissing his way back. "Shit." Clint grins, taken off guard and thrilled by the surprise. "I thought you were going to--"

"Whack you in the throat?" Even muffled into Clint's skin, Tony sounds a little incredulous. "Really?"

Clint pushes into a slight swing again, arching and flexing his spine instead of pushing off the floor. If he didn't have the bar between his feet, he'd pull himself up and wrap his legs around Tony. Flip this whole thing around, even with his wrists tied and make Tony kiss him properly, but bumping into his space is the best he can do, considering. "You did say _everywhere_."

Tony's silence is hard to read. Clint tries his best fearless grin. Cocky, and mostly because he's sure Tony won't take him up on the challenge. It might be cheating, a little, too safe a dare to count, and way safer than other times he's made similar do-your-worst offers, to other people, in less friendly places. Sometimes also when he was hanging from a ceiling, which might be what Tony's thinking about too, because the quiet lasts a bit longer, but then he huffs and says, "You'll get your chance to be a tough guy. Now ratchet down and don't be a smartass."

Right away, Clint's head fills with smartass comments, but he bites them back and says, "Okay," agreeably. His arms are still fine, but his feet are getting kind of tired. He'll have to let go soon, and he'd like Tony to be impressed and pleased with him by then.

"Okay," Tony echoes, and pats Clint's face with his hand. Gentle, in a way that's really unnecessary. "You're doing great."

"You too," Clint returns, just to back talk. Just so Tony won't get too complacent with his control and start thinking he doesn't need to impress Clint. A little bit in case he's fumbled something and put Tony off balance.

He's not really sure what's coming across, but Tony catches his meaning and makes an amused sound. "The attitude might need adjusting," he says, musing, and then the crop swats over the side of Clint's leg. A glancing strike, followed by more of the light taps all over. Tony playing safe over any target that might be dangerous, or sensitive. As careful of scars and old injury as he is of the thinner skin at the backs of Clint's knees but working his way thoroughly over Clint's whole body, until everything feels warm and oversensitive and he's straining to follow Tony's movements, trying guess where the next hit will land. How hard the impact will be. Some of the blows are getting heavier, more of them focusing on the safe zones of Clint's back and butt and thighs, even though the teasing little swats never fully stop. Tony's got them timed now, so that Clint jolts in surprise and reflexive alarm when the crop taps over someplace unexpected, followed by the realization that there's no pain, then by a breathless thrill at having been fooled, of relief, a wash of security and safety and plain fucking _want_ , before a real blow startles it back out of him, until he's not sure if he should be gasping or laughing, or crying out. 

"God," Tony breathes, when Clint makes a sound that might be all three of those combined and lets go of the rings. "Oh god, Clint." 

"M'here."

"I know you're here." It's pleased. Clint's really liking the sound of pleased. Also the way Tony's arm comes around him, nudging Clint's head from where it's resting against his own bound arm to settle against Tony's shoulder.

"I'm not done."

"Arms alright?" There's pressure moving up them, from Clint's shoulders to his elbows, and then on to his fingers. "Can you feel that?"

"You gonna fuss every time my toes need a break?" 

"You're going to answer me, or your toes are going to get a really _long_ break," Tony threatens, but his hand is on Clint's head, petting gently, his fingers making little soothing motions while Clint shifts his weight around and stretches the ache out of his feet and maybe grinds against Tony, a little bit and subtly.

"They're fine," Clint says eventually, meaning his hands, and clenches and opens his fists to prove it. "Keep going?"

"That's your best ask nicely manners?"

Clint huffs. Fidgets. Pulls back until his forehead is just resting against Tony, and he's not leaning up against him anymore. His skin is hot and stinging, and he's not sure if it's from being worked over, but he can pretend it is. "Can we keep going?" he asks, at a lower volume, and, when there's no immediate answer, tries, "Please, Tony. I want to go on."

"Well, that's _very_ nice."

Clint laughs. Lets Tony guide him up and into a stretch, until he can find the rings back, then adjusts his grip, and pulls to take as much weight on his arms as he can. There's a fatigued ache settling in there, too. Noticeable now that he's had a break. "Tony--"

"Shh, shh, shh," Tony whispers, and pats his back. His ass.

Clint sees where that's going even before Tony does anything. "Oh, god, Tony. Come on."

"Is that a _yes_ come on, or a _no_ come on?" Tony asks, but he's already got a grip on the plug. "Clint?"

He'd rather not commit either way. Doesn't want to stop Tony, or agree to whatever he's up to, but just _let_ him, but now that Tony's asked the question, he won't move on until he gets an answer. "Fuck. C'mon, Tony."

"Please c'mon yes?" 

Clint bites his lip. Shakes his head. Shifts his feet around, fussing with the spreader bar, aware again and with new intensity of how he's being held open. Not enough for discomfort, but enough that there's nothing he can do when Tony starts swatting at the insides of his thighs, high up and just shy of his nuts, the blows stinging against the sensitive skin, until Tony decides he's not cracking fast enough and taps him between the legs. 

The surprise jerks him into a swing, body flexing and twisting in expected pain, then settling when there isn't any. Tony tuts. Shushes. Taps again, a little harder, and then a little more. 

"Please yes," Clint croaks. 

"There you go. Good." It's warm, the praise settling in Clint's chest even though he's also blinking rapidly behind the blindfold, automatically trying to clear his vision so he can locate and track Tony, and keep up with whatever the fuck he's about to do.

"Please," Clint repeats. Not really begging for anything in particular. Just saying it because of the satisfied, proud tone in Tony's voice. "Please yes."

There's a hum. Off to the side and not Tony. Clint stops babbling and turns his head, searching, until Tony twists the plug out and then back in, then does it again. Asks, "Paying attention, Barton?"

"Uh."

"Good answer." 

Clint can't help laughing at it. A helpless shudder of sound that comes out sounding more desperate and less like amusement, then dissolves into panting as Tony keeps fucking him with the plug, all the way until Clint's grip slips again.

This time he lands hard enough that his heels thump against the floor, throwing his balance for a second. "Hands," he pants, "Hands're wet. Fuck."

Tony laughs. Tony thinks he's covering for the indignity of being fucked into distraction and landing like a klutz, but he also kisses Clint's bowed head and asks, "Back up?" and winches the rings into easy reach without any whining about the mechanism, then settles Clint's hands on them one at a time and doesn't raise them again. Stands there instead while Clint shivers and gulps air.

"Yeah," Clint agrees, then remembers the rest of the rules and adds a, "Please."

"You sure? Feet alright? Fingers all there?" Clint's great, and it's great that Tony doesn't make him say so. Just brings him slowly back to his toes, not quite as far up as before, saying, "Don't worry, I'm not cutting you any slack," before Clint can comment on it. Then his hand is on Clint's hip, making sure he's steady before Tony starts another round of swats. Starting light in case Clint had cooled down in the meantime, but working quickly back up to stinging swats across his ass and legs, and ending with a sharp blow to one nipple.

Clint foot slips, but he catches himself, scrabbling at the floor for purchase, then shouts when Tony smacks him on the other side. "Oh, fuck. _Fuck_. Tony--" 

"Don't let go."

Clint doesn't. Won't. Focuses on that as hard as he can, even though the plug's shifted enough now that it jolts him when he moves wrong, pulling gasps out of him, even though he manages to choke back anything more embarrassing. Or at least, he thinks he's keeping them low enough that only Tony hears.

Then there's a break, and the sound of Tony moving, and then a firm hand running over him as Tony checks--Clint's not sure what. Marks he's left, Clint's grip, the way the cuffs are fitting. All of those. Then he kisses Clint's mouth, too sudden and brief for Clint to react and reciprocate, and warns, "Take a breath," and, "Tell me when you're ready."

Clint does an obedient inhale-hold-exhale, repeats it for good measure, and sets his jaw. Nods. Then, because Tony's silence means he's waiting for a real answer, says, "Ready."


	3. Chapter 3

Clint's gone quiet. What Tony can see of his face is resolute and stubborn, and Tony loves Clint when he's being stubborn. Especially when he's being stubborn for the sake of not failing Tony's orders, which is a lot more fun than when Clint's just being stubborn in his more generally contrary way. 

Though that's proven to have its own appeal too. There's really not a lot of Clint's approaches to this that Tony would turn down. Maybe hyper-focused, something-to-prove Clint, because that one doesn’t' always end well, but there's no sign of Clint going that way tonight and there hasn't been for a while. He's been amazing, and great, and he's doing great now, even though Tony can see him tensing and relaxing by turns, trying to brace, then trying not to brace, panting a little now that he's warmed up and they're done with the lighter, teasing hits.

Tony still gives him a last little flick, aiming low, carefully getting Clint under his raised heel. There's no force to it, and Tony's close enough that he can get an arm around Clint to keep him from jerking himself loose, but it's not what Clint's expecting after the warning, and as soon as he recovers from his surprised jump, he shudders, then shudders again. 

"Easy. You're okay. We'll get you what you want, alright?"

Clint's laugh wobbles. He's not shaken up, but Tony's not sure what he is. "Don't anticipate," Clint says after a second, head turned and ducked into Tony's shoulder.

"That's a thing you do," Tony agrees, even though he hadn't meant the surprise as correction. "But I just missed a spot."

That gets a soft _huh_ that's either laughter, or Clint shifting and moving the plug, and then a, "But enough, okay?" that's more pleading than Clint probably means it to sound.

"Oh, you bet, Barton. Now it's down to business." He makes sure Clint hears him move and can judge the exact distance. That he's getting enough information to read Tony's movements and know for sure that they're done with the game of tease and surprise. "Say 'please'."

Clint makes an annoyed sound, and struggles a little, then heaves a breath and obliges, saying, "Please, Tony," in an accidentally sincere tone that makes Tony grin.

"Good boy," he says, and gives Clint just enough time to draw the next breath, before he lays a good solid hit across his butt, and another right after, swinging in the opposite direction. A double snap of sound that's surprisingly loud in the room. It's very satisfying.

For a second, Clint doesn't respond, and then his brain catches up, and a long, choked sound comes out of him. It ends in a low, belated cry. A soft _ah_ as Clint realizes how much that hurt, followed by the same, but louder, when Tony hits him again right after, and again right after that. If Clint doesn't want any more teasing, he's not going to get any. Tony's more than capable of setting a hard, steady rhythm, no guesswork, and no straining Clint's brain with expectation games and misleading cues. 

A few more hits, without break or surprise, and Clint stops trying to predict and brace. Tony can tell by the way his reaction time changes, no longer delayed now that the hits are coming when and where he thinks they are, as Tony works over his ass and thighs. Landing blows across Clint's back, with just enough variation to keep him feeling every strike. 

He's still not getting much noise out of Clint, outside of a grunt at harder hits, or a moan when he forgets he's playing tough guy. That second makes Tony want to tell him all about how well he's taking this, and what it's doing to Tony and about all the ideas Tony's getting about things he could do to Clint later, or tomorrow, or sometime next week. Or on all of those occasions, if he keeps being very, very good. 

He doesn't need to say it. Behind him, someone's muttering soft praise in what they probably think is an inaudible, under-the-breath volume. Saying it to themself in appreciative commentary as Clint lets his head drop. Their sentiments are pretty close to what Tony's thinking, even if he's not sure if Clint appreciates how much he's _being_ appreciated. Mentioning it would just draw Clint's attention to the sounds he's letting slip through and then he'd try to stop, and that's not something Tony wants. Not when he's starting to get little cries out of Clint, and Clint's forgetting where they are, and that people are watching, and is openly panting and trying to move against the plug, completely fucking turned on despite his earlier attitude. 

When Tony steps to the side to check on him, Clint's breathing hard, but his face is relaxed, the stubborn crinkle gone from his brow, mouth soft and half open. He's starting to wobble on his feet a little, and even though there's not much grip left in him, Tony can tell he's not nearly done. 

"Doing good, Clint. Keep hanging on."

Clint nods, just slightly, and takes the next couple hits in silence, even though the skin they're landing on has to be sore by now. He manages to keep quiet for another two and then a real cry comes out of him, choked off on the end like Clint tried to catch it, but not in time, and the one after that is clearer, with no attempt to stifle it, and then Clint doesn't bother to hold anything back, or put up an attitude. All the showing off and defenses and cockiness gone, until Tony's left with a Clint who's tidily stripped down. Not wrecked or broken open, but just bare. Accepting and willing and with everything on the surface, and if it was Tony, he'd feel raw and exposed, and maybe humiliated, with his cock hard and on display and moans forced out of his mouth, for anyone to hear.

He's sure Clint feels some of that, but he's also weirdly peaceful and more passive the longer Tony works. The more heat he brings to the surface of Clint's ass and back, hitting hard enough now that Clint rocks a little on his toes. Absorbing the impact instead of trying to avoid it, body relaxed and open. Meeting each strike with a groaned _ah_ , rough in his throat, volume a little softer now that it's just response and no shock. Now that the pain is blending together, from individual strikes to a singular thing that Clint's just riding, like being caught in a current.

Laid out on proper support, Clint could probably do this forever, but up on his toes and straining to hold on to the rings, he's not going to last much longer. Tony can see his grip starting to slide. The tight curl of his hands pulling out until he's clinging by his fingertips. It lets him lower his heels a little. Get a slightly steadier footing to make up for it, and for a few strikes he manages to hang on, stretched and straining. Arms shaking with the effort and breath a sob, and the next time Tony hits him--an intentionally sharp blow across both ass cheeks--Clint jerks and can't recover.

This time he falls hard, unprepared and without the freedom of movement to find footing or balance, and makes a cry of alarm, scrabbling for the rings like he thinks he's really falling, sending the straps and tethers swinging. Tony's got him before he can fall or wrench anything, stepping into Clint's body to provide support, tossing the crop as he does and sliding an arm around Clint to hold him close and take his weight.

"Easy," he murmurs. "Hold on."

Two clicks and Clint's arms fall, freed from the tethers, hooking around Tony's neck while Clint shifts his feet and finds the bar still in place, then moans what might be a complaint, might be arousal. A garble that's not even close to words, and muffled into the side of Tony's neck anyway.

"Didn't catch that, Barton. You want to spell it for me?"

Clint takes a breath. Makes a pathetic noise, then tries again. Rasps, "Eff. You--"

"Yeah, yeah. Fine. Very clever."

He gets a soft, pleased noise. Clint's attempt at putting on a rebellious front belied by the way he's tucked himself close, fingers gripping hard enough to dig in and hips moving in a desperate but contained grind. Like he hopes Tony won't notice Clint rubbing off against his hip.

"We're not done here," Tony reminds him, but lets Clint continue. Finding the base of the plug instead of stopping him. "And if you come before I tell you, you're going to be pretty sorry."

Clint nods against his shoulder, but doesn't stop, and Tony slides the plug out and back in. Feels Clint's grip tighten. His hands turn into fists against Tony's back, and even though they're free and Clint's making long, hurt sounds, he's doesn't do a thing to stop Tony either.

"Gonna let me fuck you standing here?" Tony asks, gently and against the side of Clint's head. He's sure Clint will. Also that Clint won't answer. He does hiss a little when Tony presses against a sore spot, and when the plug pulls back out of him. "You gonna come while I do this?"

Clint shakes his head, a little desperate. He's stopped grinding and is swallowing hard against Tony's ear, breath loud and shaky.

"Smart boy," Tony tells him, and pushes the plug back in, twisting it to make Clint cry out and grab on even tighter. The clips securing his ankle cuffs click as he struggles, trying to close his legs. Desperate to obey, even as his moans accelerate. 

Tony stops. Lets him come back from the brink a little, then tugs the plug again, pulling it a little at a time, listening to the determined way Clint's keeping his breath steady. "Good. And good job holding on to this," he says, pushing the plug in a quick thrust that makes Clint jerk against him, then recoil when his cock rubs against the fabric of Tony's slacks. 

It takes Clint a second to recover, and then Tony goes on, telling Clint, "I'm going to bend you over that table you liked. Have you come for these people." Tony's pretty sure Clint's forgotten about that part, because he makes a low sound at the mention of an audience. Part distress and part arousal. "Have you ask for it. They already know how nicely you can ask for things."

Normally, Clint would have a lot of opinions on the monologue, but now all he does is press his face into Tony's shoulder and pant and make inarticulate moaning noises. His eyes are probably wide behind the blindfold. That, or scrunched shut. His hair tickles against Tony's neck. 

There's no way to walk Clint over to the table with the bar between his feet. Not without it being awkward and slow, and Clint being blindfolded won't exactly be a help. "Hold this," he tells Clint, when the plug is seated again. "And then have a seat."

He keeps a grip on Clint as he goes. Steadying him as he lowers himself to hands and knees first, navigating his forced wide stance, and then slowly settling back. He can't really rest on his butt with his feet braced wide, so he's more up on his knees then sitting on his heels, but it's good enough. "Take off the bar," Tony tells him, "and clip a wrist to it. Behind your back. I'll get the other side."

Clint obeys. Quiet and efficient. Fumbling a little as he feels his way over the bar, finding the clips and working out the mechanism. He's still breathing a bit hard, lips parted, and Tony touches them, then pushes his fingers into Clint's mouth, resting his other hand on Clint's head to keep him from pulling back. And to keep contact. To touch Clint as much as possible and still keep the game going.

Clint's tongue is hot and wet and he's a little clumsy with the bar as his concentration splits, more interested in sucking Tony's fingers than in figuring out how to fix restraints onto himself. Tony lets him take his time, and lets Clint get distracted, waiting until Clint's hands have slowed to a near stop, and he's just holding the bar as he leans towards Tony, before he prompts, "Done?"

Clint starts a little at the question, and gets back to what he's supposed to be doing, bringing the bar up behind him and fumbling with it until he can get one wrist cuffed and his free hand wrapped around the loose end of the bar to hold it in place. His mouth is still wrapped around Tony's fingers, and when he gives them up it's reluctantly, following Tony pulls free, then settling again. 

He resists when Tony pushed him down, just for a second, and then he folds easily. Letting Tony reach the clip that way instead of stepping around behind Clint. It gives him a few moments where he can touch Clint and check his arms and the marks on his back and shoulders, and then the cuff fastens with a click, and now Clint's feet are free, but his hands are pulled out and back, with no way to reach forward. The cuffs click softly as Clint fidgets, testing the limited range of movement. His arms are down now, and that's giving him a bit of relief, but the way he's rolling his shoulders means he's stiffer than he'd been letting on and Tony snorts in fond exasperation, but lets him work the knots out on his own, just staying close until Clint asks, "Well?"

" _Manners_ ," Tony reminds him, but can't make it sound like a reprimand when Clint's obviously listening for instruction, head tilted, tongue flicking over his lips every so often as he concentrates. On Tony. It's like being under a spotlight, and that's before he factors in the audience.

"Get up whenever you're ready. I've got you." 

Clint snorts, ego kicking back in at the reassurance, but he stumbles a little getting to his feet, and takes a few drunken steps right into Tony, before he realizes that he's not as recovered as he thinks, and that he needs a moment or two to find his balance and rediscover coordination. 

"Come on," Tony tells him, when he stops looking as wobbly. "How about you try one foot at a time?" 

This time, Clint's less graceful and slower at reading cues, relying on Tony to lead him, and warn him of obstacles, and steer him around furniture and other patrons, until he has Clint standing at the end of the table he'd opted in, hips against the edge so he can lean and use it for support if he needs to. "Stay put. I'll be right back."

Clint nods, frowning, and Tony gives him a little pat on the back, and then a kiss to the same spot. "Delay, delay, I know. Everything's horrible." He waits until he's sure Clint's got his bearings and will be okay without contact, then tells him, "Don't move, don't make a sound. Two seconds, Clint."

==========

It's longer than two seconds. Clint's not counting, not really, but he knows Tony isn't far. That he's just gone to grab their things and maybe switch something out. According to the map of the room he has in his head, a return to the rings and then to their table isn't a big circuit. It hadn't been a long walk from either, even blindfolded. Without Clint to slow him down, it should take Tony just a few seconds. Maybe a bit longer if he's choosing new toys. He should be back already. That he isn't means he's left Clint waiting on purpose. He's probably watching Clint wait and enjoying it. Or watching other people watch Clint wait. The thought makes his neck prickle, and his skin warm. He hopes the flush isn't as obvious as it feels, but there's a murmur when he lets his head drop.

It doesn't count as moving, Clint thinks, but forces himself still and leans a little more against the table, to keep himself from shifting his weight and a little for the extra bit of balance. Without Tony to distract him from it, and without other input, the darkness behind the blindfold feels deeper, the restraint of the bar between his wrists more limiting. The floor is cool under his feet and the table edge is kind of uncomfortable, and somewhere behind him, people are talking in low voices. Laughing. Someone's moaning, somewhere, sounding breathless, and Clint feels a similar sound forming in his throat and swallows it down.

A chair scrapes, closer than expected, and Clint tenses, but manages to keep position. Concentrates on the dark and on shutting out any sound that isn't Tony's voice and on breathing evenly. Waiting for orders, and Tony's gotta be loving that. Clint kind of hates it, and the idea of people seeing him brought to heel, but in a way that makes his stomach turn over and his heart thump faster and makes him want to suck Tony off, really, really badly.

He's both distracted and focusing hard, thinking so hard about his dick and the weight of the plug and how Tony will feel in his mouth that he startles when something brushes the back of his neck, then taps.

"Down," Tony says, and it takes a second for Clint's brain to reengage and for him figure out what's being asked. 

Bending over the table feels weird, with his arms pinned behind him. His muscles are a little sore, and his skin still feels tight and hot from earlier. The position and deliberately lowering himself into it makes him feel even more exposed. More on show, right until Tony whacks him hard across the ass, so sudden that Clint shouts before he registers the sound of impact and the heat that follows, and only then the pain, gasping in new surprise when his brain puts it all together and he registers what's just happened.

"You like that?" Tony asks, but doesn't wait for an answer before landing another blow. Clint's not really cooled down enough to need warming back up, but the second hit is lighter, and the next two about the same. Whatever Tony's hitting him with is heavier than before. The thump of impact deeper, rocking him against the table edge, punching the breath out of him a little if Tony hits high across his shoulders. 

The bar is cool in the small of his back, his hands still held out where they're no good and where there's nothing to grab onto as Tony keeps landing strikes, picking up speed and force. Not giving Clint a break, or a chance to catch his breath, until he's squirming under every hit. The table is damp under his face, making his cheek stick. It's a weird thing to notice when Tony's kicking his feet further apart, spreading him into a more vulnerable target. 

Tony makes a low approving sound. A distracted hum like when he's concentrating on his work, except that what he's focused on is Clint, and on landing the exact strike Clint's expecting least, startling noise out of him until he's gasping and rising up on his toes, with even less space to struggle or get away than when he was hanging from the rings. 

It's good. Not having to worry about Tony stopping is good. Not having to think about or remember instructions or meet challenges is good. He can hear himself panting, but he's also relaxing, no longer trying to find the rhythm of Tony's hits. Just giving himself up to it. "Fuck. Fucking fuck fuck," he's saying, too short circuited for coherence. Just babbling. Gasping sometimes, if Tony hits extra hard or strikes sensitive areas. He wants to come so badly he can't find the word 'please'.

"I guess that's a 'yes'?" Tony comments, pausing just long enough to switch hands and pet Clint's butt and back and hair, starting up again before Clint can protest the delay.

"Fuck," Clint says again, and means to say _yeah_ , but just ends up gasping a series of noises that he isn't sure he's managing to form into actual words. Possibly, it's just a harsh "Ah ah ah," more breath than anything.

"Yeah?" Tony teases. "Is that _yeah_?"

Clint nods. Frantic, in case Tony stops. He'd love to have something to hold onto. His balance is gone and his muscles are jelly, and his weight is being supported entirely by the table. Having nothing to grip is making him feel loose, like he might fall or float away, with nothing holding him in place.

"Don't even think of coming like this," Tony warns, like Clint could.

"Uh," he manages, in agreement, remembering Tony telling him _ask for it_. He's not going to be able to put the sentence together.

That's fine, Clint thinks. As long as Tony doesn't stop, he's good with that. He doesn't need it. Doesn't need anything. He's so hot and light and happy and Tony's right fucking there, saying something in the smug, show-offy way that he talks about robots and himself in, except he's dropping Clint's name just often enough that Clint knows that tone is about him, and fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And then Tony slows down, and slows down again, and then stops.

"Nnnhhh," Clint moans in protest. Rolling his head to he can press his forehead against the table and sticking his ass out for more. Shuffling a foot impatiently, until Tony gives him a light swat that, inexplicably, stings enough to make Clint grunt. 

Tony follows it with another hit. They're in cool-down, Clint realizes and makes his unhappy sound again. 

"--on and on and on," Tony's saying, in an affectionate tone. "We could do it, but you're going to want to be able to move tomorrow."

He's right. Clint heaves a breath and swallows hard, and wants more anyway. He can hear Tony laugh at how obvious he is. Hear a murmur in the room. Sound's coming back. Clint's not really in favor of that, but before he can remember the conditions of the game and start fitting together a polite, ask-nicely request, Tony is unclipping his hands and giving him a nudge. 

Up on the table, that means, and Clint tries to scramble, but his coordination is gone, and he's realizing that Tony's call is right on the money. He's got Clint exactly where he wants to be, everything balanced out like the equations Tony and Bruce scrawl out in the lab, nothing tipping over, leaving Clint in a feedback loop where everything is buzzing and electric and fucking great. Tony stroking a hand down his side is gentle, but it feels like his skin is lighting up with sensation.

"Geez," Clint groans, flopping down onto the table, graceless as a landed fish. "Tony."

"Right here." 

He knows Tony's there. It's not what he means. "Yeah."

Tony's face fills his vision. His eyes look really bright. He's grinning. Just enough that Clint can see his teeth, a bit. "Hey there," he says, and Clint realizes the blindfold is gone. "Doing okay?"

"Fucking great."

"You wanna get off now?"

It takes Clint a few seconds to realize he doesn't mean the table, and that's long enough to also remember their audience. He swallows.

"Yeah, you want to," Tony concludes. Tells him. Clint's glad he's there to help sort out thoughts, because yeah. Clint really wants to. Right now, while he feels so great. Coming is going to feel amazing right now, like this. God.

"Okay. Hang on. Body fluid rules. Blah blah," Tony's saying, fiddling with something. Clint remembers his hands are free and finds purchase, somewhere above him at the head of the table, and Tony looks up for a second to consider the new stretch of Clint's body, then hum appreciatively and go back to what he'd been doing. 

Opening a condom, Clint realizes. Tony's hands are shaky, and he's having trouble with it, but he manages to get the package open and then he's taking Clint's cock in his hand and rolling it on. 

"Fh," Clint manages. 

"That's not asking," Tony says, like an asshole.

"Tony," Clint starts, and then has to stop to clear his throat and swallow twice. "Tony--"

"Wait. Hang on. Shh. Just--" Tony's stalled out again, hand still around Clint's dick, but he's just holding it. Clint licks his lip, not sure what the fuck he's supposed to do, but then Tony leans in and kisses him, slow and deep and starts stroking him off just as slowly, and then every thought in Clint's brain turns to fizz.

==========

It's fun to make Clint ask and be nice about it, and say _pretty pretty with cherries on top_ when he's aware and thinking about it and awkwardly gritting the words out or getting pink in the ears while he thinks about what to say and how to say it. And it's _extra_ fun to watch Clint watch people watch Clint think about what to say, and how to say it and _if_ he's going to say it. If he can make himself, or if he's going to wall up behind some assy comment instead. Watching Clint _want_ it is fun, and watching Clint admit to himself all over again how much he wants it is fun, and torturing him with it is _tons_ of fun, when he's still maybe sixty-to-forty percent Hawkeye, proud and pissy and a smart mouthed show-off.

But it's not the same now. _Now_ , Tony wants Clint all to himself. Doesn't want the easy begging, and eager submission and whatever Clint's planning to say after he manages to get Tony's name out to be broadcast, or be put on display, or to be for anyone but himself.

He can tell Clint's not following. He looks like he's still trying to work out what his new directions are and what he's supposed to say, when Tony decides he can't take it anymore and kisses him. Clint's earned anything he goddamn wants, anyway. Clint had earned _this_ \--the night, the visit to the club--so there's no reason to make him string vowel sounds together into anything more meaningful than overwhelmed moans. 

Clint had still been sort of aware of their audience and of being prepared to be shown off, but as soon as Tony touches him, Clint's attention is back on him. Fully and completely, all that focus snapping back, Clint fumbling over words and noises, then just _making_ noises, mindless like his brain's shorted out and all there is in his world is Tony and Tony's hand on him. Clint's tongue is pushing insistently into his mouth, and he's rocking his hips into Tony's hand, trying to make Tony go faster, give him more, like he's going to explode if he doesn't get relief. 

Tony could give his cock a squeeze, or take his hand away, or even just pull back to tell Clint _on my time, Barton_ , but he doesn't. Just keeps stroking Clint with the same slow pace while Clint pants and moans and makes pleading noises, even more frantic than when Tony had been beating him.

After the blindfold, Clint's wide-eyed with sensory overload, but at the same time shivering with the loss of sensation. Wanting more, even after being worked over so thoroughly. Tony's sure Clint could take it and take it, all night if Tony's arm could last that long. He's going to be feeling tonight in his shoulders and back, come morning. 

Clint's hands are wrapped around a bar at the head of the table, where cuffs could be attached, and Clint's wearing some, but Tony wants him free now. Likes the way Clint's taking the position on his own, the way he needs the restraint and is finding it for himself. Everything about Clint is desperate. Not enough of anything, and too much of it, all at the same time. Like this, he's entirely Tony's. There might not be more than one brain cell firing in Clint's head, but that brain cell is focused completely on him. Clint's not even wanting to please anymore, he's just gone. Dissolved into some entirely physical state where Tony can pull noises out of him, or make him arch his back and twist his body like he's got an electric current running through him, and then fall back, limp against the table, blinking at Tony like he's either rediscovering what vision is, or like he's amazed out of his mind.

"Okay, okay," Tony murmurs at him. "You're going to come in a second. Let go of the table."

Clint does and immediately grips onto Tony instead, rolling onto his side and pulling close, fingers rumpling the fabric of Tony's shirt. He's breathing hard enough that Tony can feel it puffing against his chest. 

"Shh," Tony soothes, rubbing his thumb over the head of Clint's cock, making little circles against the tip, pretending that he's not doing it because Clint makes harsh tortured noises in response and clings like he's drowning. "Easy," Tony tells him, knowing it's an impossible request. "Just relax." He's so fucking hard he could fuck Clint right now, if that was the plan. And if he was the kind of exhibitionist who liked to put himself on show instead of just Clint.

Clint makes a pleading sound, then decides to be proactive and shifts his grip, pulling Tony down to kiss him, sloppy and desperate and with Clint breaking off now and then to gulp air. He sounds like he's dying. It's pitiful enough that Tony starts his hand moving again, slow until Clint moans into his mouth, and then faster, meeting Clint's thrusts, letting him set the pace, and have what he wants, until he falls apart in Tony's hands.

He's not sure Clint even realizes it when he comes, because he keeps going like he's on overdrive, awake but blanked out, his brain not caught up to his body, and then he lets out a long moan, goes almost rigid, and comes again, body arched to push into Tony's hand. For a few seconds he doesn't even breathe, and then he draws in a long shaky breath and lets it out in a long, awed, " _Aah_."

"Good boy," Tony says, soft and against the side of Clint's face, still stroking his dick until Clint's shuddering and oversensitive. "Good, that's so good."

"Fuck," Clint manages after a few minutes, then swallows and repeats, "Fuck." His fingers are tangled in Tony's hair and it hadn't felt like he was pulling until he tries to let go and ends up tugging.

"Ow, Barton."

It takes a bit for Clint to work himself free. He's clumsy and it looks like only parts of his brain are online at all, but he manages to get his fingers loose and then pats Tony's face with fumbling affection. He's got a sleepy, goofy grin on his face, as blissed out as Tony's ever seen him, letting Tony just hold his spent dick while he looks at Tony like he's the most amazing thing that's ever happened to Clint.

"Are you okay?" Tony asks. His voice sounds thick. His throat feels almost scratchy. Clint's grin softens, and even though Tony's brought him to this point, he can't really deal with that expression on Clint's face. At all. "Pull it together, Hawkeye."

Clint doesn't even bother to humor him, pulling Tony down so he can kiss his face, and hook an arm over his shoulder. It's an awkward position to lean into. He should pull a chair over, get down more on Clint's level so he can be comfortable and so he can bury his face against Clint's skin and hold him and breathe and get himself under control.

Tony tugs himself loose just long enough to do that, hooking a chair with his foot and then stays still, holding onto Clint and listening to himself make unsteady noises, while Clint curls as close as he can, like he's trying to protect Tony from the room.

"It's alright," Tony tells him, low. He can hear tears in voice. How shaky he sounds. No wonder Clint thinks he needs shielding. "I'm fine. You just--God, Clint. God, god, god."

Clint laughs, still breathless but coming back a bit. Steadying himself so he can take care of Tony, and that's not really what Tony had planned for the night, but he can't stop himself from taking a few minutes anyway, pressing his forehead against Clint ribs, feeling them rise and fall, while Clint plays with his hair and makes pleased, soothing noises. Comforting Tony, until exhaustion wins out and leaves Tony with just Clint's fingers playing gently against his scalp.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Tony tells him, muffled. Saying it almost more for his own benefit, because he's pretty sure Clint's not listening or really comprehending at the moment. "Relax, okay. Take a break, get your gears back in gear, and then we can go home. Or upstairs and book a room, if that's too far, but I was thinking home, and my bed, and then I can fuck you as slow and as long as I want."

Clint makes an agreeable _mm_ sound. Tony could do pretty much anything to him and he wouldn't care, at the moment. He can feel his throat tighten again at the thought. Choking up like a sap.

"I'm gonna step away for just one second, okay?" He murmurs. To clean their stuff and Clint up a little. Get his coat back and drape it over him before he can start to get cold. Get everything squared away and bask in the appreciation Tony can feel and hear from the other patrons and to pull himself together so Clint won't ruin his high thinking Tony needs taking care of.

He focuses on the low murmur of commentary instead. The caught bits of conversation. Tony likes shiny things and Clint is easily the shiniest thing here tonight. He's going to get offers to share. Invitations to parties. He just knows it. There's going to be business cards left for him at the front desk, with politely worded compliments and promises of discretion, but showing off and sharing are different things, and Tony's really only into one of those.

"Ready?" Tony asks, when he comes back to Clint, before pulling him up to a sitting position, then guiding him to slide off the table, where Clint stands barefoot and with the coat hanging lopsidedly off his shoulders. Tony's pretty sure he's forgotten he's still wearing the plug, and Tony's happy to leave it in him. Let him remember and start to squirm halfway through the ride home, then whine and make overwhelmed noises when Tony finally slides it out and fucks him.

Clint follows him on automatic, letting Tony guide him by the hand, and pull him to a stop by the coat check, where they get Clint's boots back. He doesn't make a move to get them on, so Tony goes to a knee to help. Taps Clint's ankle to get him to step into each one, a foot at a time, still pliant and a bit dazed while Tony does up his laces then straightens and fixes his coat. Dressing Clint with a lot less resistance and fuss than it had taken to _un_ dress Clint.

"Home?" Tony asks him, making Clint look at him and waiting for him to process the question. "Because there's rooms here if you want to crash. But if we go _home_ \--" Tony gives him a playful grin. Lets it go lopsided, and jokey-suggestive. He's not sure Clint gets it. "If we go home, I've got a plan," he clarifies.

Clint doesn't answer, but he does lean into Tony to kiss him again, throwing his arms over Tony's shoulders, hanging on and practically draping himself against Tony's body.

"Okay," Tony says, staggering a little as he tries to take Clint's weight, and maneuver him back onto his own feet. "Okay. Home it is."


End file.
